


How is Ghoul Formed?

by Zaianya



Category: Vampire: The Masquerade
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-16
Updated: 2016-05-16
Packaged: 2018-06-08 20:08:07
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,079
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6871525
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zaianya/pseuds/Zaianya
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Pretty sure the meme referenced in the title has indicated that I am at least as old as a damn vampire, but seriously--how is ghoul formed?</p>
            </blockquote>





	How is Ghoul Formed?

                Eddie ran a cautious hand over his hair and checked his tie one last time. He could really use a pick me up, but he’d left his coke at home because he’d need a clear head if he wanted to nail this interview.

                He stepped out of the men’s room and let the door swing shut behind him as he made his way over cool marble floors towards the Rose Club. It was already 7:50, and Miss Cambridge was supposed to meet him there at eight.

                But when he gave his name to the maître d, they told him she’d been “unavoidably detained.” She’d sent a message, though, said he should go ahead and grab a drink, that she hoped to be back in the city by 8:30 at the latest, which he thought was strange—who schedules a business meeting the night they’re getting back into town?

                Of course he didn’t have a lot of choice. Either senior management knew about his “lifestyle choices” or they just didn’t like him, but either way, he should’ve been promoted by now. He’d been worried when Miss Grey called him up out of the blue—said she got his number from Enzo, and nobody was supposed to know about that little arrangement—but she said she was looking for a financial manager, and that her employer, a Miss Cambridge, was willing not only to _match_ what he was making, but increase it by fifty percent. Oh, and he’d have “creative control” over the portfolio, which he was given to understand was pretty substantial.

                He’d never heard of Miss Cambridge, but that didn’t mean much. Some of the richest people on earth were totally invisible, and if he had to go on names alone, he guessed she might be British, old money, and they tended to keep a lower profile than Americans. Stiff upper lips or something like that.

                So he sat at a booth in the Rose Club and sipped an Old Fashioned. He would’ve ordered the Bellini, but he didn’t want to be seen drinking something like that. Probably nobody cared, but you never knew who was watching, what kind of conclusions they’d draw, which of the little slip-ups would be the one to finally give you away.

                He checked his watch—8:45.

                “Mister Foster?”

                He looked up—and stared. A gorgeous blonde in a cocktail dress, absolutely radiating charm, was standing beside the table.

                He’d stood up without even realizing it.

                “Miss Cambridge,” he said, smiling warmly and holding out a hand. “It’s good to finally meet you.”

                He meant it—the “finally,” anyway. Miss Grey’s pre-interview process had been…rigorous. He was damned if he could figure out what they were looking for, though, because in addition to a couple of hypothetical financial hardballs she’d pitched him, there were weird questions too: how often was he in touch with his family (never); would working nights be a problem (he woke up at his desk most days anyway); and most alarmingly, how highly did he rate his personal safety against his client’s privacy?

                He’d had to think about that one, but in the end he gave the right answer.

                “Likewise, Mr. Foster.” She sounded rich, had that upper-crust east-coast accent. “I’m so sorry to be late, but traffic was absolutely dreadful and I’m afraid my previous meeting ran on a little longer than planned.”

                As she slid into the booth, the waiter appeared. “The usual, Miss Cambridge?”

                “Please.”

                Within seconds, there was a Bellini on the table.

                “So,” she said, lifting the drink, “I understand you have an interest in art, Mr. Foster?”

                He did…technically speaking. What interested him was moving it around, because art was an absolutely fabulous way to get a lot of money in or out of a country without paying taxes. But he knew enough to fake his way through a conversation.

                “I do,” he said. “Are you a collector?”

                He was fishing, blatantly, but he hadn’t been able to turn up anything on her except some very old accounts that tied back to Boston. Of course it couldn’t be her—the name was the same but the dates were all wrong. Maybe a relative? That would fit the old money theory.

                “I dabble,” she said. “So…I’m sure you’ve already discussed this with Miss Grey, but if you wouldn’t mind indulging me…” And then she was pulling a folder out of a slim briefcase he hasn’t even noticed until that moment. “…I’d like to go over a few points from your interview.”

**

                Ninety minutes and four drinks later, she closed the folder. He felt a thin sheen of sweat on his back, cold and clinging. He prided himself on being hard to rattle, but Jesus Christ, she’d grilled him like a steak.

                He reached for his drink, but found it empty.  She waved the waiter over.

                “Could we get a Bellini, please, for Mister Foster?”

                She’d watched him drink whiskey for the last hour and a half, so she was either oblivious—which seemed unlikely—or she somehow knew it wasn’t what he really wanted. Which, on top of everything else, was slightly unnerving.

                “If you’ll excuse me one moment,” she said as she stood up, “I’m just going to freshen up. I’m sure you’d appreciate a moment to go over everything we’ve discussed.”

                “Of course.” They hadn’t “discussed” anything, but he _was_ grateful for a second to pull himself together.

                The Bellini took a little longer than usual, probably because it was his (every one of her drinks had arrived within thirty seconds of ordering). When it did show up, he had to admit he was disappointed—the pink didn’t seem as vivid, looked a little muddy actually. Too much peach. But he drank it anyway, even though it tasted off.

                She glided back to the table and resumed her seat. He felt a surge of energy—there was just something about her.

                “Now.” She folded her hands on the table and gave him a small, coy smile. “Do you have any questions?”

               

**

 

                She got back to him the very next day, and he was grateful she’d had the tact to call after he got off work, around nine o’clock at night.

                “Mister Foster,” she said. “I was wondering if you’d like to meet me one more time? …you’re one of our final two candidates—“

                _Wait, what?_

                “—and I’ve devised a bit of a tie-breaker for you.”

                He would’ve been annoyed—nobody said a damn thing about there being other applicants—but he loved a challenge, and he was confident whoever the other guy (or girl) was, he could blow them out of the water.

                “Absolutely,” he said, scrambling for a pen and flipping over some old spreadsheets. “Where should I meet you?”

                “Are you familiar with Hysteria?”

                He froze. Wait—a club, it had to be a club.

                “I’m not sure,” he said, then took a wild gamble based on something she’d let slip last night. “…is that in the Garment District?”

                “It is.” He got the impression she was smiling on the other end of the line. “Can you be there in an hour? Oh—and bring anything you think you might need.”

                Need for _what?_ The most he’d need was a calculator, and even then…

                “Sure thing,” he said. “I’ll see you there.”

**

                A bassline thumped along with his pulse, and even at a well-lit table everything was blue and pink and flashing, hard to focus. At least nobody bothered him—the two hired heavies standing in front of the booth saw to that. Miss Cambridge had dumped a few folders in his lap, then vanished onto the dance floor with her personal assistant, Miss Grey, and frankly he was starting to wonder about those two.

                The goal, of course, wasn’t for him to show off—he’d seen that right away. He was supposed to sort through some pretty simple stuff and give them some pretty simple advice, nothing more. But doing it here, with the lights and the noise and the crowd…

                It was a test, and it pissed him off, because he was definitely worth more than this.

                Wasn’t he?

                Not according to the senior partners. But maybe this particular brass ring wasn’t total bullshit, and if he could just get a firm enough hold on it, something good would happen. So he buckled down and did his job. At the very least they brought him something to drink at regular intervals, and he’d managed to score a hit of coke in the bathroom, so he was definitely awake.

**

                He got the job.

                They set him up in his own office in some anonymous downtown building, small but prestigious, old but well kept. It was classy, and he liked it, especially when they didn’t jerk him around about the salary—150% of what he’d been earning, first paycheck, and of course there’d be performance based bonuses. What exactly those were they’d been a little vague on, but he didn’t want to push his luck so he didn’t ask.

                He met Camilla—Miss Cambridge—once a week at the Rose Club for drinks and a status report. She was actually pretty savvy, more than he’d expected. She had a solid grasp of the basics and a natural instinct for making money, and he suspected if she really wanted to she could do the job herself. But then, what was the point of having money if you couldn’t pay people like him to do all the work?

                He looked forward to their meetings, quite a lot actually. The position itself was rewarding—her portfolio was diverse, almost too diverse, but at least she’d never go completely bankrupt. He’d been right about those old accounts, too: they belonged to her grandmother, of the same name, and one of the first things she’d asked him to do was track down anything else he could find under that name, “in case she’d forgotten about it.” Christ—he wished _he_ had the luxury of forgetting about a half-million dollar investment.

                After a few months, he got a call—she wanted to meet him at her apartment in SoHo. And when the security guy showed him into the office, he left. There were no heavies, no Miss Grey…just him and Miss Cambridge, and a bottle of some very expensive wine.

                He swallowed. Surely she knew he was—well. Not his type. And yet…as he looked at her…he realized he could probably do it anyway, if that was what she wanted.

                “Eddie,” she said as she poured the rose. “I think it’s time we discussed one of those bonuses I mentioned when I hired you.”

                “Oh?”

                “You’re good with people,” she said. “But not as good as me.”

                He flinched, even though it was true. “I’m sorry if I haven’t met your expectations, Miss Cambridge.” And he was—just the thought of disappointing her sent him into a panic-spiral. She wasn’t just rich—she was very fucking rich, and one of the things they’d stressed when they hired him was that they expected him to stick around, basically promising total job security—dependent, of course, on satisfactory performance.

                So he really couldn’t’ screw this up.

                “Oh no,” she said. “You’ve done very well. But I propose to make you even better.” She took a sip from her glass. “As I’m sure you’re aware, some people have a…force of personality to them. For some it comes naturally—for others…” she let that hang. “In this particular case, it’s something I can teach you.”

                It was weird. He didn’t understand it all, the things she said or even how it worked. But he believed her, because she showed him what it looked like when she _wasn’t_ doing it, and there was an instant shift, like she’d been sitting under a spotlight and somebody switched it off.

                Frankly, it was kind of like magic.

                They worked on it most of the night and he wasn’t even tired. The champagne gave him a buzz, but it also woke him up, and it seemed to help with…whatever she was teaching him. To be honest, he didn’t really care, because he was already thinking of all the things he could do if he could walk into a room the way she did.

                Around three o’clock, he thanked her, and she smiled, and he went home.

**

                _This is fucking crazy_.

                Not only did his new talents yield immediate, impressive results, he’d started to notice something else—he was a hell of a lot stronger.

                It started in the gym, which he attended three times a week. He thought he must have been plateauing for a while, hadn’t really pushed himself, so he upped the weights. And that didn’t’ seem too bad, so he upped them again.

                By the time he was done, he was exhausted—and he was pressing at least 300 pounds.

                Of course, by the next night he wished he hadn’t. He felt wrung out, couldn’t keep his eyes open, and the only reason he didn’t roll directly into bed was he was supposed to be meeting Camilla.

                He must’ve looked like shit, because she frowned the second he walked in.

                “Eddie,” she said, sounding like the governess he’d never had. “You’ve been over-exerting yourself.”

                “Just hit the gym a little hard,” he said with an apologetic smile as he tumbled into the seat opposite. “I’m sure a good day’s sleep will fix me up.” It was a joke, one he normally wouldn’t have made, but he was feeling pretty loopy with exhaustion.

                To his surprise, she wanted to hear all about it. He hadn’t pegged her for a fitness buff, but he told her what he’d been doing, how much he’d been lifting. She nodded slowly, then pushed his Bellini across the table towards him (he hadn’t even noticed it arrive).

                “I think perhaps we should have another little sit-down,” she said. “At my loft.”

 

**

 

                “You’re a vampire.”

                She smiled. “I’m afraid so.”

                He would have laughed, but she seemed serious, and if she _was_ serious she might be crazy, and who knew what she’d do?

                “That doesn’t explain _me,”_ he said. “If you’re the vampire, how come _I’m_ able to lift 300 pounds?”

                “My blood,” she said. “I’ve been slipping it to you for some time now.” She had the grace to look embarrassed. “I’m sorry about that, but it was a necessary bit of deception.”

                “Slipping it to me _how_?” He stared. “You can’t just ‘slip’ blood to—“

                Then his eyes fell on the champagne in front of them—its rosy hue, and how his, now that he thought about it, was just a few shades darker, a detail he’d attributed to low lighting.

                “Yes,” she said, catching his look. “Now I’m afraid we’re not going to be able to move forward unless you believe me, so please trust me and stay calm while I show you I’m telling the truth.”

                “What—“

                But she wasn’t on the couch anymore, she was sitting right next to him, and all he’d felt was a rush of cold air from something moving through the room very quickly.

                He threw himself backwards, towards the other end of the couch, scrambling to his feet, but she made no further move. Breathing hard, he stared at her...even though, he suddenly realized, he wasn’t scared so much as shocked.

                “What do you want?”

                Flawless blond brows drew together. “I want you to continue doing what you’re doing, of course—managing my finances.”

                “Uh…okay...” His head was spinning, badly, and he had to drop back onto the arm of the couch before he fell. “Could you…I don’t know…explain things?” He ran a hand through his hair, shaking apart all that carefully applied gel. “I mean, why tell me? Why give me…powers? Why not just keep me in the dark?” To be honest, he still wasn’t sure he believed her, but the way she moved…he couldn’t explain it.

                She made a low, thoughtful noise and drummed her fingers on her knee as she stared past him, thinking about it.

                “You have to understand,” she said. “My business dealings are almost wholly legitimate—“

                _Almost, princess._

“—but it would be impossible, after you’d gone through them closely enough, to hide certain…peculiarities.” She shrugged one shoulder. “So I’m offering you certain perks, if you will, that you couldn’t get anywhere else, which I’m hoping buy both your silence and at least a measure of loyalty.”

                Fair enough.  And damned if he didn’t feel that “measure of loyalty,” more than he’d ever felt to pretty much anyone.

                “So you don’t want to…turn me into a vampire?”

                She laughed. “Even if I could, no.” He gave her a look, and she shrugged. “It’s a much more involved process than popular culture would have you believe—and it’s extremely painful. And of course you wouldn’t be any use to me if you couldn’t’ move about in daylight, so don’t worry, that’s _not_ something you’ll ever have to worry about.”

                He relaxed. “So…where do we go from here?”

                “We continue,” she said, calmly, “exactly as before. Oh, and I’ll have Audrey drop by in a few days; she can answer any questions you might have between now and then.”

                “Miss Grey?” He stared. “Wait…” He thought about it. “She’s like me, isn’t she? She gets…perks.”

                Camilla nodded. “She does, yes.”

                Wheels started turning. “So…forgive me for asking, but…what else can you do?” She frowned, so he hurried on: “It’s just…I don’t know a hell of a lot about vampires, but there might be ways to leverage that to your advantage, financially speaking.” Now his thoughts were moving a thousand miles an hour. Could she read minds? That alone would be invaluable. And didn’t Dracula turn into a bat or something? That was less useful, but as far as sneaking into a board meeting--

                “There certainly are,” she said. “But I think we’ll save that discussion for another time.” And she stood up, and he realized it was time to go.

                He rose. “Well…it’s certainly been an interesting evening.”

                “Hasn’t it, though?” As she walked him to the door, she laid a hand on his arm. She’d never touched him before, and now that he was paying attention he knew why: her fingers were ice-cold. “Michael will see you to your car.”


End file.
